


Of Ruins and Men

by Inkblot0Blue



Category: Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Violence, Other, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot0Blue/pseuds/Inkblot0Blue
Summary: "And in his last few cherished human moments, George knew the answer to the tormenting puzzle: They could not be saved." Zombie AU. George and Lennie are the only survivors in this world that has been attacked by zombies. Can they get through it unscathed?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a short story I wrote for my GCSE English class back in 2014. The assignment had been to imitate Steinbeck's style but place the story in a different context. In my case, it was a zombie apocalypse story. I'm well aware there's some English errors with the grammar and style, but it accurately reflects the way I wrote at the time and my English teacher apparently really liked it. That being said, feel free to comment and review it.
> 
> If you're looking for more recent work (to get a sense for my current style), and if anyone here is interested in Ace Attorney, check out Transit umbra, lux permanet.

Chapter One

* * *

 

A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River hung low, close to the dirt path and the hillside bank; it no longer ran deep and green, but shallow and grey. The water was cold and murky, and a sliver of orange sunlight peeked through the clouds. One side of the river was derelict rubble; a jagged cliff that once proudly presented the strong Galiban Mountains, now been reduced to stone and sand. On top of it, a rusted machine stood; dark and out of place.

Two men emerged from the dirt path. They walked side by side, and in the open they would survey their surroundings.

Both were dressed in torn denim trousers and in blood-congealed trench coats. Both carried burlap sacks slung over their shoulders – an assortment of weapons of different varieties was in the bags. The man on the right was short in stature and nimble. His eyes darted across the river and the path – restless. His companion was large with a heavy walk and had sloped shoulders; he dragged his feet as he walked, the way a bear drags his paws.

* * *

The short man turned around the bend in the path cautiously, his companion followed suit. The first man held out a hand to inform his partner to back away and draw out a weapon.

"Lennie, I don't want no nonsense this time 'round. Jus' attack when I tell ya to." The young man whispered; his voice was raspy, as though his throat had been dry for quite some time.

"'Kay, I won't. Ah promise, George." Lennie, quiet as a mouse, removed the shotgun from the sack as he carefully chose his words.

"Good." George poked his head out around the corner, quickly ducked and gave a thumbs-up sign; the coast was clear but they had to be cautious.

The road merged with another – just as barren, derelict and desolate as the first. The branches of dead trees rustled and quivered in the cool breeze that enveloped the two men.

Lennie's shoulders stiffened, his hands twitched and his knuckles turned white with anticipation. The rifle was slung over his right shoulder in the event of conflict, should the need arise. Lennie studied George's actions; the steady walk; the intense, beady blue-eyed gaze; the itching hand on gun. He opened his mouth as if to speak but shut it again.

George noticed this and asked his companion:

"Hey, Len, why'd ya do that?"

Lennie's puzzled expression greeted him. "Do what?"

"Nothin', ya jus' seem funny...kinda odd."

"Well," Lennie looked ahead, his charcoal-grey eyes glimmered in the dim light; a tiny fragment of hope in this decayed and ruined world. "…we are the only survivors."

George nodded in agreement. "I guess so…" He stopped short at a clearing in the woods. He cocked his shotgun and set his jaw. "Hey, d'ya wanna bet that that house over there's empty?"

Lennie leaned forward. "Ya never know, do ya, George?"

George shook his head and headed in the direction of the building.

* * *

The bunkhouse was a long, rectangular building. It housed two floors and was in seemingly good condition on the outside. Inside, the walls were peeling with plaster and there were cracks in the whitewash, the floor was unpainted and the boards had been hinged open. Three walls had windows; they were boarded up and blocked the few remains of dusk setting behind the sun. In the fourth wall was a solid mahogany door with a metal latch.

The latch was raised. The door opened and a short, broad shouldered man walked in, George, and trailing behind him was Lennie.

"So, I guess we'll stay the night here. I'll take watch first." George said as he observed the area around him.

Lennie had placed their items in one of the rooms upstairs and left George two guns and a flashlight to help him up the stairs, the destroyed banister and the rotting steps proved dangerous, and more importantly, to take watch.

Silence greeted them – a sound they were still adjusting to after years of human contact and loud, drunk men on Friday evenings at the farm they worked at. So much had happened in the past six months.

The orange sun disappeared behind the clouds and the cold stars came out. Outside, the incessant rustling of branches shook, and twigs snapped in response.

The floorboards creaked in the near pitch-black darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

The afternoon sun greeted the man, a bright haze of light rained down on his face, preventing his eyes from opening. George rose from his position on the floor and slowly made his way outside the room and onto the landing. He was greeted by Lennie, who was sauntering up the stairs; his face was red and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Y'know, George, I heard somethin' funny goin' on last night."

"Oh?"

The larger man tilted his head towards the door. George did not understand the message.

"Come with me."

George raised his hands in protest. "Go to sleep, I'll check."

"'Kay," George's eyes followed Lennie as he trudged up the stairs. His friend's deep hoarse met his ears once again. "We really oughta break the staircase."

"Yeah, an' jump out the window? Good job, Lennie, ya jus' passed yer intelligence exam." George said at last, his brow was furrowed.

He quickly dismissed the conversation from his mind and continued downstairs.

* * *

The outside of the door was streaked green; a thick, gooey substance – a mix between a solid and a liquid. George's finger trailed over the splatter; frozen and dry as a scab.

"Probably one o' those God-awful things…" He muttered. Anger was visible in his face and voice.

Just then, he heard the sound of a twig snapping, on instinct, George pressed a hand to his hip where his gun holster normally was. He cursed inwardly and rushed back into the bunkhouse.

"Lennie,  _Lennie_! One of 'em is outside!"

"Aw, Hell. For real?" The reply was quick.

Lennie staggered out of the room. In his left hand was a semi-automatic rifle and in the other, a shotgun. He hurled the rifle at George, who caught it in the air and they both hurried downstairs.

* * *

One end of the bunkhouse was piled high with logs, where the creatures were attempting to climb into the building. Over the log pile hung a Jackson pitchfork, suspended from its pulley. The logs came down like an avalanche to the entrance into the woods.

From outside came the wails and grunts of dead-like beasts and the caws of crows, squawking and tormenting. But in the bunkhouse, there was nothing more than a whisper; a dull, incessant banging of hands on walls and incomprehensible mumbles filled the air.

The zombies were typically grey-skinned, fleshless creatures – merely sacks of bones and with hollow, white eyes devoid of irises or pupils. Regardless of where the humans had been bitten and been infected, their strength increased by at least two times more than the average human's capability.

Inside the bunkhouse, Lennie stood, cleaning out the shotgun with an oily rag. Lennie eyed the weapon for a brief moment before exiting.

* * *

It was quick and there was no protest.

One misfired shot. A pounce. A bite. Gone.

* * *

A short bark was heard and a human-like creature, a zombie, charged at him.

George wasted no time and aimed his rifle at the advancing monstrosity.

"Die!" He yelled.

Before he could fire, a hand was clamped over his mouth. He let out muffled protests, expecting a big, fleshy hand belonging to Lennie to release him from his grasp. However, he was greeted with a clammy, skeletal hand. He jerked his head to the right to face the 'beast', as George made eye contact, his cobalt-blue eyes widened in horror.

Sunken eyes and clumps of dark, matted hair falling out of its place, a dark-skinned figure, large in size and with heavy restraint placed on him; a newly converted, fresh zombie.

It was Lennie.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

The shotgun and rifle lay on the dirt covered earth, neglected and worthless. If Lennie had been attacked then it would be inevitable that he would too. The thoughts remained in his mind; solid but unstable.

He could not think anymore and sub-consciously lowered his hand to his back pocket where his last hope was placed: a mere hunting knife. He thanked God that Lennie, as a zombie, was stupid enough to not know how to properly restrain him.

In short, fluid movements, George whipped his free arm around Lennie's temple, kicked the restraining feet off him, causing the creature to topple into the pile of leaves. The short man wasted no time in lowering the curved, but sharp, blade of the weapon and driving it into 'Lennie's' heart.

The beast let out a wail of agony – a plead for survival. The animals surrounding them paid no attention and continued to destroy the land.

George drove it in deeper, not caring whether the blade actually punctured the heart or any vital organs – or whether he plunged it in deep enough for the tip to appear on the other side.

* * *

In that moment, without awareness of what would occur next, he felt his head spin uncontrollably and felt the sudden urge to collapse into the earth beneath him, allow it to swallow him up, and rest. He felt heat rush through his veins, as though something was being extracted from him.

George's legs gave out and he fell face-first into the mud, coughing up lint.

He felt hot, red liquid seeping out of a tear in his broken skin. He could not scream; could not feel pain; could not understand emotions. He silently observed, with a tilt of his head, 'Lennie' sinking his fangs deep into his calf muscle, with the knife still lodged in his heart or somewhere in his body.

On instinct, he grabbed at his calf muscle, beating away the creature's attempts to sink its teeth into more of his flesh.

"Ya bloody bastard! An' I told ya to keep safe...This is what ya give me? Hell as ya know it?"

No response – at least, no human response.

"You're insane, y'all are. An' I'm bound to be like ya any minute now. I don't wanna be one o' you."

It was the end as George knew it. His hand left his leg and he was greeted by the discoloured pigmentation of his skin. He made a desperate attempt for the gun, metres away from his grasp and utterly and totally neglected.

"Jus' so ya know, Len, I've never been so scared in m' life…I guess ya were, weren't ya?"

'Lennie' did not respond. But hollow eyes did.

Blotches of red became scars of purple and a faint outline of charcoal grey. Nails became claws. Eyes became cat-like slits; his sight being slowly distorted and blinded every second as his beady, black pupils turned silvery-grey.

"Damn it all to Hell! So this is how it ends, huh? Jus' like that? No big fat poof? At leas' acknowledge it, man."

He could not speak much anymore. He felt his mouth being reshaped, new teeth in, old teeth out; like a trip to the dentist. He felt fangs, drenched in blood –  _his blood –_ become part of his features.

His slits allowed him to see milky-white, distorted fragments of dusk; twilight had approached. Pale light hit his vision; he attempted to adjust to it. One final lopsided grin escaped him.

"Moon's beautiful, though," he wheezed out with difficulty; he felt phlegm and blood trap his airway but resisted the urge to hack it all up. "Yer m' last goodbye, ain't ya, Moon? Take me so'where safe, 'kay?"

And in his last few cherished human moments, George knew the answer: They could not be saved. Ever.


End file.
